Time
by howtobeinconspicuous
Summary: Since that day at St. Barts, time had become a haze, each day nearly indistinguishable from the last.


Time

In that moment, he thought time had stopped.

And maybe it did; time never really seemed right after the day he watched the greatest man he's ever met fall from the hospital roof.

Time passed in a haze. There were days and days and days and they all blurred together, each day undistinguishable from the last, a haze of slowly numbing pain.

And then there were the times that stood out, that marked something significant.

Going back to the empty flat, and realising that's how it would be from then on.

Sherlock's funeral.

Finding pieces of Sherlock's life, remainders of the good man. Scraps of paper with Sherlock's writing on. His socks, balled up in the corner left from when Sherlock had thrown them in a nicotine-withdrawal rage. Left over experiments – but Mrs Hudson had taken care of them.

And there was that day, when he could have sworn – over on that corner, beneath the tree – the way he was standing – it looked – it seemed to be – no. It couldn't.

And no matter how John pretended, how John blocked everything out, Sherlock was everywhere. Every reminder of him was a knife in the gut, and meant another broken mug, more of the aching pain that wasn't sorrow and didn't result in tears, but was just an empty feeling that something was missing. That stupid aching feeling followed John everywhere, like his shadow.

And so time passed, with odd segments standing out at random intervals.

John didn't know how much time had passed since that day at St. Bart's – it could have been months, it could have been years – but it had been a while when there were the footsteps. And it was different; something seemed different, almost like – well no. But it wasn't Mrs Hudson or Greg. It wasn't Mycroft either, though the steps sounded similar. They sounded like the steps of a man John once knew, a man John would never forget. A great man, a good man, a hero. His best friend, yes, but… more than that.

And despite his claims of not being gay, John knew – as he always had – that it wasn't an issue of sexuality with Sherlock Holmes. He was just Sherlock, and he sort of defied all the rules that John had carefully set up. He was his other half, cheesy as it may sound, and they completed each other. And it didn't matter if it were in a romantic way or not, they just _were_. They were together, soul mates; perfect halves, whether they were fucking or not. And John would never have a sustainable relationship because he'd already found _"the one"_, just not in the packaging he'd expected. And that had been torn away from him, and now he was an empty shell of a man because half of him was missing.

And so, to hear these footsteps, after all this time, this long, haze of time where each day was indistinguishable from the next, was _scary_. Because John couldn't help but hope, hope it was the man he thought he'd lost forever. These footsteps, so familiar, that he'd missed so fucking much – god, he couldn't help but hope.

And then there was someone turning the door handle, and there was a man in the doorway, and he was skinnier than John remembered, and he looked tired – really fucking exhausted – and his expression was unreadable and it was Sherlock. It was Sherlock fucking Holmes. Who was dead, buried underneath the earth in a graveyard. But it was _him_.

"John".

It was his voice, and his face.

"John. John, forgive me, please. I didn't mean – I never wanted – I was trying to protect you."

It was his eyes, burning intensely in a deathly pale face.

And he looked different, changed; he was too skinny and his hair was a complete mess and there was something different in his eyes, but _it was him_.

The two men just looked at each other, John with an expression of disbelief, hurt, bewilderment, confusion, anger; Sherlock with an expression of hunger and regret.

"No." John finally spoke, his voice cracking a bit.

"No, you're. You're dead. I saw you. I saw you jump, I saw you land, and you were broken. I took your pulse. You were dead. You are dead. No, I'm going crazy, it's happened before, it's not you, it's not."

Sherlock took a step towards him, pain in his eyes.

"John – "

"No!" John half shouted the word. "Get – just – get out of my head, please. _Please_."

He was begging now, begging a dead man, begging a ghost. And he knew it was crazy, _he_ was crazy, but he'd stopped caring about such matters long ago.

But god, he wished it were all real. Wished the apparent hallucination were actually real, that Sherlock wasn't gone, wasn't dead.

Sherlock took a step towards him.

"John, no, I'm – I'm sorry."

And it was the apology, said in such broken tones that made John realise that this was real, that this was happening. Sherlock Holmes didn't apologise, he was proud and haughty and didn't stoop so low as to say sorry to anyone. And yet John knew that this gaunt faced man standing before him _was_ real, _was _Sherlock and wasn't a figment of his imagination. And the ground was rushing towards him and seemed to hit him quite hard.

"Right." John said. That seemed rather inadequate.

He stood up, wincing. "Right." And then he felt a surge of anger for the git in front of him. How dare he, how dare he let him think him _dead_ for three fucking years and then just show up saying sorry, expecting all to be forgiven. How dare he apologise, how dare he stand there in that stupid manner, how dare he make John Watson fall in love with him.

And then aforementioned John Watson didn't care that his anger seemed to be justified by more and more ridiculous excuses and punched Sherlock in the face. Very hard.

Sherlock's head snapped back and he stumbled backwards from the force of the blow.

"I suppose I deserved that."

"Oh, you suppose you deserve that do you? You show up here after three years of letting me think you were dead, letting me live my life without you being there playing your stupid violin at three am, and "suppose" you deserve being punched? You deserve a hell of a lot more than that."

"I didn't – it wasn't – it wasn't by choice. It wasn't fun or easy or a walk in the park. It was – it was hard, living without you. I – I didn't like it. I – well I – I missed you."

And then Sherlock was stumbling backwards a little again, but this time not because of a punch in the face but because his friend, his John, was hugging him fiercely.

"I missed you too, you git."

John's voice was muffled, and a little embarrassed and awkward, but it was his voice, and it was his John, and Sherlock was finally home.


End file.
